Sherl(un)locked
by ludwigsgirl97
Summary: Sherlock cuts himself. It lets him think, and makes him feel alive. But he promises John that he won't do it anymore as long as he stays with him. So when John gets married, Sherlock is left with a contract broken as he is. WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH VIA SUICIDE


No matter how many nights he resisted, sitting up, unsleeping or bolting straight up from another nightmare, gasping for breath, Sherlock would never stop wanting his fix. No, not the cocaine that his brother worried for, or the cigarettes that he was constantly told were killing him. Those he could handle; they were exaggerated to be called afterthoughts in comparison to the monster that came from his own mind and body in a macabre conspiracy against him. The urge to reach into his drawer where he kept a brand new razor like most people kept that emergency cigar, and trace the parallel lines on his shoulders. He took no pleasure from the liters of blood he dealt with every day, but the few lines of it that would run down his own arms, from his own veins left him feeling calm, his thoughts coming together as he drifted into sleep.  
He knew that John disapproved, though it had taken him ages to find out. Stray cats were apparently vicious monsters, and he'd had to update his tetanus shots after shoddy London workmanship left a series of nail cuts on his arms. Denial was powerful, but the truth eventually came through in the form of a little old lady named Hudson.

"Sherlock, what did I tell you about this? Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of white silk?" She scolded, and John figured that it was just another mess from experiments, or from a case. Until he looked at her face, twisted not into annoyance, but worry.  
"Come on, that's less than last time. In fact, just throw it out. I don't like that one anyway." he said, flipping through the paper for a case.  
"You know it's not healthy. I liked it better when you did drugs." She said, her voice now sounding like a mother in an intervention.  
"Wait, what's not healthy?" John asked, confused as to what was going on.  
"It's perfectly healthy. I know where the veins are, and I never go near any of them. It's like running a mile, only I don't have to leave this chair."  
"Stupid! Those weren't cuts and scratches. Sherlock would you think this is an okay solution?"  
"Because it works? I could be doing anything intoxicating I could get my hands on like I used to, or smoking like a locomotive." He was growing defensive, like a lion about to be attacked by a horde of hyenas.  
"This is hardy any better. Jesus, Sherlock , why didn't you tell me?"  
"Because you've obviously got such wonderful reactions." the detective said sarcastically.  
"I'll leave you boys alone to sort it out. I've tried a hundred times." Mrs. Hudson announced, heading downstairs.  
"Okay then, we'll think this out. Why would you do this? What made you start?"  
"I read an article online that many people found it calming. I treated it as an experiment, even kept journals. I found it to be a successful treatment."  
"And when you accidentally cut to deep? No matter how clever you are, it's bound to happen."  
"It won't."  
"And the depression side effects associated? There are a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea."  
"Well, it's all that's helped me, so it can't be too awful."  
"Go to a therapist. It's not that bad, I promise."  
"Why let some old stuffy woman tell me what I already know?"  
"I get through the day without slicing myself open!"  
"You were in a war with guns and comrades. I was in one all by myself. They're completely different."  
"Try me."  
"Fine then. When I was nine years old, My croft went off to high school, and all I ever heard was my drunken mother wailing about how her only son was gone. When I told her that I was right there, she said that I didn't count. That I wasn't worthy of her genetics. She told me that she was proud of me once, but it was only because she was so drunk she thought I was my brother. I became interested in crime and chemistry because I wanted for fake my suicide and make it look like Mycroft had done it. I wanted to know if she'd care. Then, when she didn't notice for four days, I tried to really kill myself only to be found by the perfect elder, and "saved". I spent three years in a mental hospital until I gathered enough from the doctors to fake being well. My father forgot my name at my high school graduation, and then didn't show up to my uni ceremony. When Mum went into the hospital, her heart is bad, you see, she said that she'd be fine if I'd never been born. That it had been getting worse since my filthy blood ran through it. It's why I take comfort in bodies; they never say anything. Alone is better than having people hurt you. Alone protects me." By the time he finished, he was shaking, and tears were running down his face. He was curled up, finally acting like the child his heart still was, begging for someone, anyone, to love him.  
"So there are idiots in this world. You know that better than anyone." John said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a hug. "But this," he tapped at the shoulder, "isn't the answer. Because alone isn't better, and you don't need it to protect you. I'll protect you."  
"You can't promise that, John. Something may take you away." Sherlock said, falling nearly limp in his friend's arms, weakened by the emotion he was so used to hiding away.  
"As long as I'm here, promise you won't do anything like this?"  
"I suppose." He tried to maintain some pride as he drifted to sleep atop his Captain.

But now John wasn't here. He was off gallivanting about with Mary. Given it was his new wife, only just returned from the honeymoon, but John had still promised. So with everything Sherlock had learned about legal contracts, by the fact that he'd been left alone, the compact was null and void. With that comforting justification, he removed the blade from his drawer. He smiled as it glinted in the faint light of his lamp.  
Tears ran down his cheeks as he made a small incision, before guilt overtook him. He decided to at least call John. That would only be the gentlemanly thing to do. Only he didn't get an answer, just a voicemail. He'd been abandoned.  
"This is really goodbye, John. No miracle return. Have fun with Mary. Maybe name a kid after me? Sherlock Watson sounds like a good name to me. Or maybe Sherly if it's a girl? Goodbye, John." He said, pressing the red icon on the touch screen and biting his lip to steel his nerves. Cases weren't fun without his blogger, and the home seemed so dull without constant, caring griping.  
He'd looked forward to finally being able to safely tell john for three years, and he;d found that he'd been replaced, and then ignored. He didn't gently slice this time, as he usually did. He stabbed down into his wrist, and dug down. His head grew light, and he fell onto the bed, blood gushing from his wrist.  
As he faded into blackness, he heard his phone ring, and the voicemail play over the speaker.  
"Sherlock, what's going on? I'm coming over. Don't do anything rash!"  
But it was too late. It always seemed that, when sherlock was involved, help came far, far too late.


End file.
